


heartfelt remembrance

by sadcrabby



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Akashi Masaomi's A+ Parenting, Akashi Shiori - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hayama Kotaro - Freeform, M/M, Mayuzumi Chihiro - Freeform, Mibuchi Reo - Freeform, Nebuya Eikichi - Freeform, brief mentions of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-21 02:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17034320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadcrabby/pseuds/sadcrabby
Summary: Remembrancerɪˈmɛmbr(ə)nsthe action of remembering something.a memory or recollection.a thing kept or given as a reminder or in commemoration of someone.the action of remembering the dead.





	heartfelt remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Akashi! I suffered for a good month to make this 
> 
> To be honest I tried my best on this but I'm not 100% satisfied with it because some scenes are lacking. Nonetheless, it's something, and I didn't want to hold it off for any longer in case I stopped myself from posting this in fear of insecurities. 
> 
> Also I don't know what time period this fanfic is based on but it's somewhat historical royalty. I really don't know anymore. Oh yeah and the Akashi I was imagining here is oreshi, not boku. 
> 
> Warnings: Lots of flashbacks, mentions of blood, bad parenting, very brief mention of dissociation

_Seijuro is ten when he feels the warmth of his mother’s embrace_. 

_He hugs her after a long day with his father and she asks him if anything happened. He doesn’t answer and she accepts his silence as she always does, understanding without questioning him. The gentle grasp of her hand guides him toward a garden of young cherry blossoms and mellow green grass; the muffled trickle of water is joined with the soft calls of birds in the distance_.

 _Seijuro kneels down beside her, watching with a childlike wonder at the koi swimming in the jaded waters. Their scales glitter, mesmerizing in the gold rays of light as their long whiskers trailed behind them_. 

_They remind him of dragons depicted in the tapestries he’s seen too often within the palace; coiling, curling, ancient terrifying beauty with immortal blood in their veins. Gentle and calm like the morning streams trickling past young greening sprouts, drifting and passive against the sequence of time, nurturing_. 

_Like his mother, perhaps. Seijuro shies away from her with the silly thought_. 

_She chuckles behind her hand, adjusts the janomegasa with the other, “Look, Seijuro.”_

_She beacons to him softly and Seijuro scoots closer, “I found this little one from a local festival.”_

_A glass jar is held in pale delicate hands. Inside, he’s intrigued to see a young koi swimming in circles_.

 _It was young and far from maturity but it did not mean it wasn’t as magnificent. He marvels at the beautiful vibrant scales and its translucent white fins, appreciates how the light reflected its changing gradience from a dazzling gold to the orange shimmer of scales_. 

_She smiles at him before pressing the item into his hands. The weight of it is unsettling and he wonders if he will drop it. He’s never held such a small life in his hands before and the experience sways him with uneasiness and an equal fascination_.

 _“Why don’t you tip it into the pond for me? Here, I will help you,” She carefully holds up the jar’s base with a steady hand, guiding the mouth of the jar downwards towards the rim of the pond along with his own efforts. The action is easy with her by his side, always a guiding light in the dim world he only knew of_. 

_He watches as the koi streams down and into crystalline waters with a soft splash. Several minutes drift away like the clear sound of water streaming along a rocky creek. In those minutes, he gazes with curious eyes, watching as the small fish circled around the lily pads before swimming to the rest of the group_. 

_He can end up staring at their fins for hours if he were able to; they billow magnificently around an invisible current, like the white dress of his Mother shifting in the breeze_. 

_Her voice calls for him again and when he turns around she has a hand clasped over another, concealing something in her palm_. 

_He’s met with a secretive smile and a finger to her lips; her voice has dropped to a low whisper, “Now don’t tell your father I bought this for you. He thinks I’m spoiling you too much as it is but I have to disagree.”_

_Seijuro does not question when her hands open, revealing an intricate brooch fringed with expensive gold and silver. A carved ruby piece glints in the sun, a glossy pearl held between distinguished jaws as thin whiskers from the assumed snout weaves around its curled arched shape, accents the silver gold scales like so. He realises then that it's a dragon brooch_. 

_His hand reaches to touch it but he pauses, looks up to his mother_.

_“It’s alright, go on,” His mother beams at him with a twinkle in her eyes as he gingerly takes the brooch from her palm. “It’s custom-made just for you.”_

_The brooch sparkles in the sunlight at every angle, the details all the more fascinating when the silver-gold and red refracts its colours onto the grass. For a long time, he cradles it in his hands, treasuring this fragment of the outside world his mother had bought just for him. He has no idea what to say with such a special gift_.

_“Do you like it?"_

_His voice is soft with awe as he meets her gaze, his heart overwhelmed. He stammers a little, “Yes, I … Thank you, mother.”_

_Her hand strokes his hair as she always does; her smile is as bright as the sun_. 

_“Happy birthday, Seijuro.”_

Akashi wakes to the touch of a hand against his hair, his eyes blinking open slowly to the haze of a late afternoon.

His head still throbbed with an unnerving headache but the strokes against his head eases it away, gradually. The ceremonies for him turning eighteen this year had been more exhausting then he had initially thought; constantly being shuffled around with numerous members of other famous royal families had drained him. 

He must’ve overslept judging from the window; the streaks of orange and afternoon pink indicated that it was evening. 

“Did you sleep okay?” Nijimura asks as he helps Akashi sit upright. His hand is steady on his back.

Akashi presses his hand against a yawn, "It could have been better I would admit. I don't think I'm fully awake right now." 

Nijimura leans forward with a grin, "I can help you with that.”

The mattress gives way underneath the weight of Nijimura's knee dipping into the wrinkled sheets, shifting over to Akashi's side. The heat of his breath fanning against his skin tingles as he pulls him into a close hug, his lips pressing against the line of his neck. As much as he tries to squirm out of his embrace with an airy laugh, Nijimura manages to effortlessly restrict every move to untangle his body from him. 

Akashi half-heartedly pushes at Nijimura's firm chest but it's proved useless when Nijimura ignores his weak attempts and kisses him to his heart's content. He releases a relenting sigh as he opens his arms and embraces him back after a futile moment of struggle, relishing the softness of his lips against his skin as he cards his fingers through his dark hair. 

"I have to prepare the manuscripts for Mibuchi now. You've done an excellent job on your part though, I am awake more than ever," Akashi leans forward to press a tentative kiss against Nijimura's lips and he returns it with a teasing nip against his jaw, "We must get up before anyone walks in.”

"I wouldn't care." Nijimura hums, burying his head under Akashi's chin; his arms do not let go and stay enclosed around his smaller frame, stubborn, “I just want to cuddle and stay here with you.”

"You're more spoiled than I thought, Nijimura-san."

"Says obocchan," He answers immediately on point, shooting him a grin.

Akashi just rolls his eyes and shifts out of Nijimura's embrace much to the other’s grumbling complaints. He ignores the way he pouts as he heads to his desk. He had to admit it was amusing to see Nijimura Shuuzou, once a well-known delinquent with a knack for violence and now his current bodyguard, acting like a child. If he had ears and a tail, they would surely be down. He hides the tug of a smile behind the back of his hand as he sits himself down into his chair. Nijimura must’ve noticed because he can feel him smiling his way too despite not seeing it. 

"So, what are you planning to do more now?" Nijimura's weight rests against the back of his chair from behind, his chin resting on the crown of his hair. He can feel the vibrations of his voice as he speaks, " Don't tell me more work." 

Akashi shuffles a layout of scripts and scrolls across the even length of his desk, dusting off the periodic dust collecting on the edges with a clean sweep of his hand. He feels Nijimura’s attentive stare follow his every move as he distributes each pile evenly across the polished surface. Just as precise, he equips a pen between his fingers, dipping the tip into a pot of black ink, "I will need to complete these papers for Mibuchi so then these documents can be processed and verified for the council meeting tomorrow.” He angles his head, gives Nijimura a thin smile, “ I’m afraid you may have to postpone your ‘cuddling session’.”

"Fine," He grumbles but doesn’t miss a chance to kiss his head. Nijimura takes a dramatic bow at his side and asks in his best impression of the butler, “May I ask if the crown prince needs my service?”

Akashi stifles a laugh at the odd formality in his gesture. His amusement betrays him when he smiles, "Yes. I wasn't able to complete my morning routine with Yukimaru so I would like to know if the servants are taking care of her as I see fit. Could you go check?”

"Of course, I'll be back soon then," Nijimura presses a lingering kiss against his forehead before departing for the door. He pauses against the frame, peeking his head in again with a frown, "Now _don't_ overwork yourself." 

"I will not. That, I can assure," He says and is earned a satisfactory nod from Nijimura’s side. He listens to the retreating footsteps for a moment before bringing his attention to the papers he has in front of him.

 _His mother returns his smile, her hair just as bright as it flows against a pleasant breeze of warm air. The sun casting her in a golden glow makes her look even more beautiful and to his child-like fantasy, even immortal. As if she had the innate power to live forever without the parasitic chill of a cursed illness flowing rampant in her veins_.

 _Seijuro has forged through ten years since he’s been born with the Akashi name. He should know by now that believing in such idle - childish- hopes would tear him apart by the seams in the end, no matter how gradual_.

 _Like the frigid breath of a dying spirit, the warm breeze shifts into a raw gust of wind; it chills his skin with unforgiving coldness, raises it with goosebumps as if icy fingers trailed along his spine_. 

_Mother doubles over with her hand pressed against her lips. The sound of her ragged coughs curds thick fear in his blood. The blinding white of shock and panic tears through his heart with parasitic talons; shredding, unravelling, spears a terror through his chest like nothing has ever done. The hands on her shoulder does nothing to calm the violent tremors_. 

_The rush of blood and the pulsing sound of his heart overpowers the shouts and yells in the distance as her skin took on a deadly pale complexion, dark veins prominent against the line of her neck as it spiderwebbed down onto her collarbones_. 

_Seijuro does not know what to think as panic lodges a lump into his throat. His feeble attempts as words do not form except for his weak attempts in calling her name; even then they are barred by the erratic beat in his chest, thunders against his ears. His voice quivers as he feels her vitality drain from her complexion, as the warmth of her skin recedes into a lifeless cold. Desperate pleas do not go heard as she violently coughs against her palm_. 

_"It's alright, Seijuro," She whispers reassuringly, but it doesn't rid the sharp fear carving into his chest. He knows nothing is okay in that instant when dark blood drips from the corner of her lips. Hands tremble, wanting to do more than just lingering like the faint wisps of air. He feels just as useless_. 

_Blood seeps from between her fingers. His eyes do not turn away as he watches its slow descent to the water. It coils to the surface like a dark red ribbon_. 

_He can't hear past the sound of his laboured breaths as the maids rush into view, gently guiding his mother away from him_. 

_A trail of blood dotted the white lilacs as she disappears from his line of sight_.

 _He attempts to follow but a servant stands in his way, holds him back when he moves to trail after them. He’s given up struggling against the arms around him when he hears the deafening sound of a bell resounding across the royal grounds. The breath of death across the garden corrodes any straggling hope he feels now; the brooch feels heavy in his hand, weighs him down with a turmoil of dread_. 

_The date reads the twentieth of December on the day of her funeral_. 

Akashi jerks awake with the ringing of a bell in his head, mouth open with a soundless gasp. As he sits upright, his head pushes against the weight of a hand. He turns around, mildly surprised to see Nijimura standing behind him. 

"What did I say about overworking yourself?" Nijimura scowls lightly with eyebrows furrowed. His hand ruffles his hair harder than usual and Akashi succumbs under the hard knobs of his knuckles. He pries them away before his hair could take any more rough treatment, "I got held up in the courtyard dealing with some new recruits so I couldn't get back until after an hour. Now I see you collapsed against your desk,” His eyes softened, “Everything okay?”

"Yes,” He eases into his chair, composes himself against it, “Everything is alright.”

 _“Everything is alright,” The maid answers softly, quietly as if he’s a frightened animal. Seijuro sees the underlying pity in her eyes and he swallows down the bitter in his mouth, “She’s gone to a better place.”_

_‘Gone where?’ is what he wants to know but he leaves his question unspoken against the silence. It will do no good if he knows the servants will not answer behind their practised facade. They’ve all become mere statues ever since the cruel clang of a bell_. 

"I’m almost finished," His attention drifts idly to the pile left on his desk. He counts forty papers from the bottom to top. "It will only be a ten minutes before I need you to escort me to Mibuchi." 

Nijimura side-glances the papers laid on his desk, then to the pile sitting behind them. He gives Akashi a sceptical look, "I wouldn't call that ten minutes." 

"It is what it is,” Akashi chimes, feigning ignorance at Nijimura’s scrutinising stare. 

Nijimura keeps staring. He leans against the other side of his desk with a firm hand on the surface. 

"Don't you want to celebrate your birthday properly without all the ceremony crap and not do-” He makes a vague gesture to his desk, “This?” 

( _The date marks the twentieth of December and the day of her funeral_.)

Akashi pauses, his line of sight lowering to the pot of ink, "No." 

He shuffles a pile of papers, taps the bottom against the desk as his eyes absently move to the window. They soften when he sees the lustrous lights of orange lanterns a distance far off in the village. They’re pleasing to the eye, like fireflies reflected like the souls of fiery spirits against the mirrored reflection of the river. 

It was a nice change in scenery and something he’s long missed. A lantern floats across the surface and his voice seems to trail after it with distant longing. For what, he did not know.

"Not really." 

Nijimura follows his gaze then halts on the window as he stares past the glass, "The number of lanterns made this year is as impressive as last year's. Hell, maybe even better.” Nijimura remarks. 

"Yes, it's a shame that they're so far away," He comments, a touch wistful as he sees past his reflection on the glass. 

Nijimura gives him a look and Akashi can tell he's thinking with the way he’s resting his chin against his fist. His face lights up, and Akashi has come to know this look is when he's made a decision. Ones that are not good, especially.

"It's decided," Nijimura says, abruptly uprighting himself to fix his uniform, flattening out the creases. The clothing is tight-fitting, hiding all the bulk of his weapons along with the assistance of a dark cloak, weapons he intends to use if there are any potential dangers when Akashi is outside of royal grounds - 

Outside-

“Where are you taking me?” 

Nijimura regards him with a raise of his eyebrows, expectant. When Akashi doesn't make another sound in question, Nijimura merely rolls his eyes and casts a thumb back over his shoulder, pointing toward the window. His eyes follow after. 

"You're going to celebrate your birthday, _properly_ ," He makes quick work of unlocking the door, lets it swing open soundlessly, "Let's go." 

"I doubt this is a good idea," Akashi says evenly, doesn't make a move to follow Nijimura to the door; stubborn nature and refined discipline roots him to the floor, "What if someone finds out you and I are missing? I have these papers to finish and if I don't hand them in time for Mibuchi, they will come check." 

Nijimura cracks a broad grin, "We'll sneak out and be back before anyone even notices." 

He rests his stare to the side, uncertain, "This is a bad idea..." 

Confliction is what he feels most of all; one part of him trying to ground him to the palace as his responsibility, while the opposing side urges him to go, to take a glimpse at the outside world he's only ever seen through a window, through -

( _\- the gentle grasp of her hand_ )

A warm hand encloses around his and the grounding touch carries him back to reality, pulls him along insistently. Despite his earlier hesitation, he willingly allows himself to be pulled along much to Nijimura's content.

"It'll be fine, besides you have to feel rebellious at this age, right?" Nijimura silently shuts the door behind them. He turns the key into the hole, gives the knob a few rattles to make sure it was locked.

"Right," He whispers, tightly gripping Nijimura's hand. Bouts of uncertainty twist in his chest, but they're soon dispelled when Nijimura ruffles his hair like he always does.

"That's the spirit." 

His heart beats faster then it should as they walk down the corridor, past unsuspecting maids and servants. 

Akashi ponders if Nijimura’s distasteful habits have been rubbing off on him. He contemplates the thought, turns it over like a page in his head and thumbs it down with indecisiveness. He should quell this taste of adolescent rebellion before it grows beyond his reach. 

But perhaps it will not be too bad. He has faith that Nijimura will get them back in time before Mibuchi decides to slaughter his bodyguard. 

The whole way, Nijimura guides him through the long hallways with a critical eye. Akashi trusts him that they won't be caught; after all, Nijimura has extensive knowledge about the guard schedules, whereabouts and the timing of patrol switches being a royal bodyguard himself. Security is sparse, worn out and lethargic by evening on top of that too. 

They tread onwards with Nijimura looking forward and Akashi lingering a little behind as his eyes sweep across the paintings hanging on the imperial walls. Their lifeless eyes seem to follow his silent steps. 

_His eyes stay idle on the painting of his mother, alongside many of his deceased ancestors. A familiar ache twists into existence, choking him. He holds the brooch in his hand, presses it against his chest as if it could help calm the ravaging cycle of pain. There’s nothing he can do to tame the wild anguish even when he prays for a release he cannot have_. 

_He forces his longing stare away from the walls with much effort, ignores the tight ache in his chest as he stares past the paintings to the humble purple of hydrangea in a vase. He prefers them over the haunting inanimate smile on her lips_. 

_With a year already behind him, he understands now that it's nothing more but a bittersweet memory encased by a wooden frame_. 

_He has to learn to move on, to tear the past away from him, impede discipline into his flesh and bones until it moulds into second-nature. It will do no good contemplating far memories when a promising future is ahead of him, laid out like an outline of a tapestry, him being the centrepiece to weave the missing gaps he is to fill in time_.

 _Forcing himself to move on; it’s what his father demands of him. He always obeys with a nod, however listless and subtle it is_. 

_He forces himself to believe the brooch in his hand is nothing but a relic of the past. It’s what his father would want of him_. 

_He disappears into a room before the servants catch him straying in the hallway_.

 _The brooch is laid inside the vacant space of a spare drawer. Just as quietly, Seijuro closes it shut. The cold wind of an open window breezes past the icy tracks of silent tears_.

 _Move on_. 

A cool breeze brushes past him as they emerge out of the back of the palace from a secluded exit; it’s a refreshing difference compared to the encroaching warmth inside the palace. The night's chill becomes prominent when a cool draft of wind whispers over him, slithers under his clothing. He shivers, his arms wrapping around himself subconsciously to ward off the cold. It doesn't help that his yukata is thin and he wonders if he should've gotten changed into an attire more suitable for this kind of outing. 

Nijimura must’ve noticed him shivering, “Here.”

He starts untying the front of his cloak and tugs it off shortly after to wrap it around Akashi’s shoulders He ties it up for him with smooth work of his fingers, palming the top of the hood before he drags over his head like so. He pats him on the head a few times, satisfied.

“Thank you,” Akashi adjusts the cloth resting on his shoulders, pinches the edge of the cloth forward when it shifts in the faint wind. “How about you?”

Nijimura waves a dismissive hand, "That should keep you warm and as an additional help, it'll hide your identity while we're out. Can’t have you getting abducted or something," Nijimura mentions roughly before fixing his cloak again for him; his eyes fleeting over as he makes sure it was securely wrapped around him and in no risk of slipping past his shoulders. He nods with a subdued huff and his smile borders on a teasing smirk, "Besides, we can't have Akashi-sama getting sick."

Akashi doesn’t have it in him to bother reprimanding Nijimura's sleight way of teasing him, only smiles as he reaches for his hand. He lets himself be guided along the gravel footpath to the nearby village, Nijimura's warm fingers enclosed around his. When Akashi finds himself distracted by the spirited lights in the distance, Nijimura’s hand pulls him in a direction just in time to avoid colliding into the trunk of a tree. Nijimura scolds him with exaggerated exasperation, _Quit getting so distracted, brat_.

“Only because of you,” Akashi points out with a discrete stare. His carefully neutral face does not betray the secret amusement he feels as Nijimura’s cheeks brighten.

That makes it the second time Nijimura has given his head a firm pat and a dismissive remark. He relishes the feeling as a comfortable silence envelopes them.

 

 

By the time they arrive at the outskirts of the village, warmth instantly smothers him like the slight weight of a blanket, pleasant and inviting. It wards off the intrusive cold rather nicely as they walk further in. 

He notices the savoury smell of cooking food, hears music and singing throughout the entire festival around him, all bright colours and high energy. The stalls are presented lavishly with exotic trinkets and hardware crafted from copper and gold while others streamlined across his left emitted strong aromas of spices and rustic herbs. His eyes follow the wooden carvings of a serpent and a phoenix displayed on a white cloth. Everything was a new experience, a new piece of colour to the incomplete jigsaw of his world. 

He’s captivated most of all by the swaying lanterns strung across the stalls, crisscrossing with fiery light above his head. He thinks they’re more striking than any trinket he’s seeing among the stalls. 

Their vivid orange lights flicker minutely to the beat of the music flowing through the street; stretched shadows cast across the path as street performers put on a fiery show for a small gathering crowd to his far left. He watches the flame curl and twist into the air, the flames dancing for the crowd. He’s captivated for a long time by the pure light burning defiantly against the slight wind. 

For a small village and an even smaller community sustained purely by merchants, farmers and overseas traders, the life of the festival was still nonetheless boisterous and loud with upbeat music; the beat of drums thrums against the ground, up into the soles of his feet and the air is just as alive with singing. Nijimura’s hand is the only thing grounding him when his mind strays off, his eyes taking in everything to commit the vibrant colours, spicy aromas and casual banter of the crowd to memory. Distracted by another exceptional performance in a near distance, he does not manage to see a hefty crowd marching through the main path until Nijimura tucks him away into his side with an arm behind his shoulder and across his chest.

"Careful, don't want you to get trampled since you're so short," Nijimura teases; his smirk highlights the mirth in his eyes. 

"I'm not short," He says back with a sharp leer. Nijimura only laughs in response at his attempt of a menacing glare. Before he can say anything, he snatches a fleeting kiss and Akashi doesn’t have it in him to stay miffed at his playful insult. He’s sure the warmth on his cheeks isn’t just from the festive heat. 

Nijimura walks him to a stall with wooden posts hung horizontally against two standing poles. An array of various masks hang from nails and Akashi takes note of their different varied features until he grows tired of looking at their glossy details. He turns around for Nijimura but an empty space, where he should be, is vacant. 

There’s a light tap on the shoulders and Akashi turns again. A deathly pale face hovers centimetres away from his eyes, looms over his head with slanted eyes and scarlet lips. His heart jumps into his throat and an undignified yelp flits past his lips as he angles his face away. 

“Got you,” Nijimura’s deep voice vibrates from behind the mask. He moves it away from his face, revealing the grin on his lips.

Akashi breathes, his cheeks burn with humiliation and he skirts his eyes away, “That was unpleasant of you.” 

Nijimura laughs, “I’m sorry.”

He can tell he isn’t with the way he’s smiling genuinely; Akashi can only shake his head in sight of that. As Nijimura hangs the rim of the mask over its assigned hook, he eyes it again with more detail. 

Upon closer inspection, it’s a feminine face with a slight dusting of pastel pink across the pale flesh of her cheeks, where eyes would be are carved out to form black and hollow gaps. Her lips glisten with a rich red as if they were painted over with blood. He-

 _-wonders how mother’s face would look like under the wooden coffin. Would she still be smiling or would she be nothing more than a faded image of black and white, a lost monochromatic piece of memory. Would spots of cracking blood coat her lips, would her skin be as warm and alive instead of the bleached white he imagines under her paper-thin skin_. 

_He swallows thickly. His eyes stare into his own reflection against the polished wood until a maid escorts him elsewhere_.

 _Shards pierce, something tears, ravaged into oblivion until he can’t think past the haunting images of his mother in a white dress; her face is just as pale except for the drip of vibrant blood on her lips_.

A beat in his heart thuds against his chest. Voices begin to fade from his ears; drowns away as if he’s being pulled under a numbing tide.

A firm voice calling his name jarrs him out of his stupor. He sees Nijimura carrying over two masks in each hand: A fox and a wolf. He has Akashi hold the wolf mask as Nijimura ties on the fox mask onto his head with a red ribbon. It’s somewhat loose, the rim of the mask dips below his eyebrows and Akashi has to adjust it when it threatens to completely cover his face every time he turns his head. After deciding for settling it against the side of his temple, he turns to Nijimura with an inquisitive look. 

“What is this for?” His hand reaches up to touch the nose of the mask. It’s cold and smooth to the touch. 

Nijimura pouts and raises an eyebrow, “It’s for fun, what else?” 

“It’s childish.” 

“To a rich kid like you, maybe.” He’s earned a hard flick to the forehead and Akashi recoils, rubbing his head. Nijimura adorns the wolf mask, turning it around the side so it rested against his temple. His eyes are twice as bright under the vibrant light of the lanterns, “Now we match, obocchan.” 

The mask is white, polished to an impressive degree. Red streaks stream down in a curve under corners where eye sockets were carved out. A swirl of red rests against the white of its forehead.

Akashi tries not to think, afraid of seeing something else in its place. 

“Yes,” He whispers, attempts a smile that feels far too faint against his lips. 

It goes overlooked by Nijimura but he does pause, his expression faltering a little. Akashi blinks and it’s gone; perhaps it was his imagination. There’s relief, he doesn’t need to have Nijimura worry over him.

“I saw a thing you might like.”

Across a dozen more stalls, they arrive at one with a generous amount of ceramic bowls and pots proudly displayed on a wooden table. Alongside them hosted a collection of glass jars neatly arranged in the front and his reflection distorts as he inspects their craftsmanship with a keen eye. He skips over the glazed bowls to see a narrow wooden pool stationed underneath a board showcasing cerulean tapestries of koi; their extravagant colours and the slight sheen of threaded silk guide his eyes down to the highlighted reflection of water.

The surface ripples with solid colours of orange-red, white and specks of black and greys as small schools of young koi swim along the polished fringes of dark wood. Their silky fins contrast the dark oak, standing out to the light as if each line was veined with silver and gold. 

A particular one catches his careful eye, watches as its scales gleam like the flow of gentle flames melting into pure gold. He-

( _-marvels at the beautiful vibrant scales and their translucent white fins-_ )

It’s almost the same as the one so many years ago, he realises. 

A vague memory stirs, breaching past years of other recent memories. He smothers it down just as quickly before it can have time to flare into something more.

He can’t afford to have feelings buried for years to emerge, not right now. 

( _He has to learn to move on, to tear the past away from him, impede discipline into his flesh and bones until it moulds into second-nature_.)

"They're pretty aren't they?" A man joyously says, his hands emerging from underneath the stall to reveal a ceramic bowl and a wooden _poi_ , "Would the little boy like to try? It's for cheap too."

Little boy- How dare him-

He considers leaving in sight of that but Nijimura's body prevents him from doing so; his back bumps against his sturdy figure the moment he takes a step back. 

"Nijimura-"

"Yes, he does," Nijimura cuts in, gives Akashi an unyielding look with those silver eyes. He’s been pouting a lot recently. "Give it a go."

As if he knew he was about to protest, Nijimura just stares at him with a light scowl and weighs him down with an awkward silence. It’s not too long before Akashi gives up and sighs, opening his palms much to Nijimura’s delight. He presses the ceramic bowl and _poi_ into his hands before grabbing his own pair of equipment from the lip of the stall, "Look, I’ll play too."

With that, Akashi takes a stand beside him and observes Nijimura’s poor, and too-hasty, attempts to scoop fish into his _poi_. After a series of failed struggles, the paper breaks with a wet sound and Nijimura releases a long-suffering sigh; the man in the stall commemorates him for a good effort nonetheless, a light clap on the shoulder. 

Akashi tracks the one he’s had his eye on for a while. With adept ease and simple work of his wrists, it sloshes into the ceramic bowl without another second to spare. The man at the booth whistles and claps, praises him for his quick catch before Nijimura hands over a few coins with a succession of clear clinking sounds.

As they walk away, his eyes stay focused on the small fish in its glass jar. 

A familiar memory tethers on the edge until it no longer does, spills into his consciousness with the warm colours of nostalgia. He imagines his mother walking in his place, holding the very same jar. 

Buried feelings of yearning struggle against the chains he has set, threatens to break through the surface. 

His grip tightens, his fingers press harder than it should’ve against the cold glass. 

Nijimura proceeds to tug him along, easily guiding him through the sparse groupings of villagers. At a particular crowded junction, Akashi finds himself wedged between two infuriating tall bodies and he only manages to squeeze past their hulking presence with Nijimura’s assistance. 

“That was unpleasant.” He wipes his hand across his forehead and releases a short sigh, readjusting the shifted fox mask as he did so. 

Something steaming hot and sizzling presses against his lips. He takes the proffered stick off from Nijimura’s hand. He eyes it warily before looking up to see Nijimura holding the same. Pieces of food coated in batter and fried are stabbed through with the wooden stick; he counts three. 

“You’re short because you aren’t eating enough,” Nijimura gives him a pointed look when Akashi just continues to blink blankly at him, “Now eat, it’ll help you grow those extra inches.”

Nijimura takes a bite out of his own but Akashi just watches with an uncertain stare. 

“What is this?” 

Nijimura makes a sputtering sound and Akashi wonders with a fleeting thought if he choked on his food. He swallows down his mouthful of food before turning to him with a doubtful look, “Don’t tell me you don’t know what takoyaki is.”

Akashi tilts his head at Nijimura’s border-line accusing tone, “I don’t.” 

It’s not a lie but Nijimura continues to stare holes into him as if he did just tell him one. Eventually Nijimura relents with his hard stare and takes out a chunk of his food with bared teeth, “Guess that’s typical for you since you’re accustomed to the palace’s cuisine and what not,” _Rich kid_ he hears Nijimura say under his breath before he does a half shrug, makes a gesture to the takoyaki in his hand. “It’s street food alright, but that doesn’t mean it’s poisonous. Look I already took a bite and I’m not writhing on the ground foaming at my mouth.” 

That was true.

Akashi eyes the takoyaki and the residual white steam curling upwards. Under Nijimura’s hard and insisting stare, he inspects it considerably before taking a small testing bite. It scalds his tongue with a sharp heat, moisture pricking at his eyes. 

“It’s hot,” Past the jarring heat of the food, Akashi could vaguely pick out the taste of tempura and octopus over the even coat of fried batter. To his surprise, he finds that he likes it, “But it’s delicious.” 

“See, it’s good right?” Nijimura takes another mouthful of the takoyaki; he’s already wolfed it down to the last piece, “I’m surprised you didn’t taste the pickled ginger. You hate that stuff like it’s the spawn of hell.” 

Akashi smiles at that and proceeds to take another bite. When he swallows, it warms his stomach considerably so. His warm breath forms in the air as small puffs when he speaks, “Do you usually eat this, Nijimura-san?”

“Yeah actually,” Nijimura makes quick work of discarding the stick; Akashi follows suit after having taken a last bite out of his, “I used to eat it often with my family. My brothers and sisters always went wild for them. Can’t blame them though, my mother makes the best.”

 _Seijuro’s fingers trace the wooden edge of his mother's coffin for the second time; it’s cold and inanimate, feels more like a stone tomb. His longing touch does nothing to quell the trembling of his hand. He’s numb and unmoving while his mind spins as something breaks, rips him apart from the reality he knows_.

 _Time is lost to him, dangles from a fragile thread. It seems to taunt him; that he cannot wind back time despite the power he’s been raised on_.

 _He’s listless when his father orders him to head to his room and continue his studies. His body and mind drifts in and out during the pieced sequence of the day, like he’s a phantom himself just ghosting the edge of a cruel reality he’s forced to embrace. Blank pages of where memories should be flit through his head, endlessly_. 

_The door opens and a flicker of hope flares into him, expecting to see her. It’s doused by a cold and plummeting disappointment when he realises it’s not mother, but another servant who has come to escort him elsewhere for a lesson with his tutor_. 

Mother. 

( _“She’s gone to a better place.”_ ) 

Where.

( _-Haunting images; her face is just as pale except for the drip of vibrant blood-_ )

The sour tang of the pickled ginger suddenly becomes prominent against his tongue. His stomach turns and suddenly he feels sick.

He casts his eyes elsewhere to distract himself. They settle on a stall with flower and it helps ease his mind off for a moment, invaluable seconds to _breathe_ when the effort strains his chest, when his heart pounds against his ears in time with the frantic beats of the music coursing through the stalls. 

_One beat_.

The merchant there tends to the flowers he has laid out. His eyes become drawn to an assortment of carnations. Their petals droop with a rich red.

As if they were soaked in-

 _Two beats_.

He flicks his gaze to the right. There are white lilacs, petals innocent. Untouched. 

( _-blood dotted the white lilacs; blood coils to the surface_ ) 

His stare is snatched away to a group of children running past him. They are quickly joined by their frantic mothers, busying themselves with catching up to them. His eyes are trained on a mother kneeling down, a child no older than ten running up to her with arms outstretched. 

( _-ten when he feels the warmth of his mother’s embrace_ )

The child suddenly looks up at him with wide eyes, a splitting image of the Seijuro he used to be eight years ago. 

( _-twentieth of December on the day of her funeral_.)

A small wolf mask in his small head. Red dots and white.

( _-blood) Drip, drip_. 

Akashi swiftly turns to avoid his stares. His heart hammers against his ribcage.

The air in his lungs becomes choked, the light of hanging lanterns blurring in his vision. He can’t hear anything except for the rush of his rattled breathes; One in, one out-

( _-the deafening sound of a bell_ )

He can’t-

“- _shi_ , Akashi.” 

The sound of Nijimura’s familiar voice tears him back to his senses. He can’t see anything until Nijimura gingerly pries his own hand away from his face, one which he didn’t even notice was pressed against his head. 

“Oi, did something happen?” Both hands are on his shoulders and his head is lowered to look into his eyes. 

“I don’t know,” Akashi says, forcing past the lump in his throat. The sounds from the festival are dimmed by the sound of his own heavy breaths against his ears, the air is too thin; “I’m - I’m not-”

Nijimura presses him against his side with a protective arm around his shoulder, walks him down to a quieter place away from all the stalls, the barging music and the constant stream of laughter reverberating in his head. 

All the noise warps and grows heavy; everything becomes muffled as he’s gradually dragged beneath a cold dominating presence.

He’s drowning, suffocating under the surface. Like there’s water in his lungs instead of air, choking him. 

The laughter becomes unbearably deafening until it morphs into a dark chant to his own ears. 

_She’s gone_. 

Akashi closes his eyes, doesn’t want to think of anything else.

 

 

He observes the light glimmering across the dark waters on a bed of soft grass, watches how the white light gave way to the orange of floating lanterns as they wander across its surface. The clear sound of water gurgling over rocks calms him down, soothes his mind back to reality, relieves him of the weight in his head. 

The grass underneath him is cool against his palm, soothing when he sits back as he watches the small koi he had fished from the stall swim away from the lip of the jar. There’s a brief flash of orange and white before its colours darken, descends deeper into the water until he can’t see any more of it. He places the glass jar to the left while Nijimura sits next to him on his right. 

"I'm sorry,” Akashi eventually says, easing a steady breath out of him. His fingers tap the glass, the crisp sound of its smooth surface therapeutic against the crystal trickle of water, "I was just reminded of..." His throat tightens and doesn’t speak in fear of his voice breaking. 

Nijimura just nods, placing his hand over his own, "Yeah, I know. You don’t have to say anything."

He leans his head against Nijimura's shoulder and the other lets him, hugging him to his side with an arm. The steady stream of water becomes mesmerising to watch, the moonlight rippling across the surface like molten silver against the pitch black waters. At times like these, he prefers the warmth of Nijimura's reassuring hold instead of the festive heat, the steady sound of his heartbeat instead of the repetitive thrum of drums. Off in the distance, adults and children place their lanterns down, pushing it along the caressing stream to join the rest.

Akashi doesn't know how long he watches the lanterns go adrift in the gentle current. His attention shifts to the graceful whites of swans as they skim across the surface and instinctively, his eyes follow them until they reach the banks. A stall is situated there, much like the first one, with an impressive assortment of flowers.

Again, lilacs.

They’re enchanting under the cascade of moonlight and their petals radiate an elegant illuminance with an ethereal shine. 

_Seijuro watches the lilac in the vase of water for long minutes. The petals had long shrivelled to a brown, some of them fallen onto his desk. The stem is brittle and withered with age, weak against the edge of the vase as time has reduced its former beauty into a mere skeleton_.

 _He feels an odd longing grief as he held the remaining pieces of the lilac on his palms. It's easier to grieve for something like a flower when he knows it can be replaced_. 

A phantom drop of blood paints the white petals a dark red and it’s enough for him to snatch his eyes away. 

He curls in on himself, tucking his head away into his arms. He doesn’t want to think about it. 

Nijimura’s voice is soft when he gently probes the silence with a subtle touch on his shoulder, "Hey, I want to show you something.”

He leaves the question in his mind unspoken, letting Nijimura’s hand guide him. 

Seconds gradually shift into minutes as they walk away from the festive buzz of the village, the warmth from the festival fading to give way for the pleasant night wind blowing against his face. It brushes against his cheeks, refreshing, wiping clean the haunting memories bordering on his mind. It’s enough for now to regather his composure even if it’s barely anything. 

The sure warmth of Nijimura's hand guides him through the darkness, his touch like a burning candle in the night. Like this, Akashi distracts himself with an idle admiration for his surroundings, for anything to calm the hidden anguish threatening to dig under his skin. 

Between intervals, he indulges himself with staring at the river in the distance and to the stars dotting the black carpet of the sky. They’re faint lights barely present and obscured behind thick clouds.

 _She’s not coming back. Seijuro closes his eyes, bitter_. 

_He stays up several nights, spends the hours dedicated watching the distant stars glint far away between crevices of unending darkness. Dark shades of clouds drift over the grey moon as a howling wind rattles the glass of his window. The stars cease to exist soon after_. 

_Seijuro wallows in a shroud of misery, buries himself under the sheets, pretends the warmth of it was his mother’s instead_. 

_She’s gone_.

Nijimura’s hand secures his grip reassuringly around his; the warmth a breath of fresh air, his taste of freedom, an intimate touch of comfort he’s forgotten, buried under years of a necessary cold discipline. 

They’ve arrived at a garden; a humble entrance of two stone lanterns and neatly-trimmed bonsais lies ahead of them. Upon stepping forward onto stone pavements; he’s met with a sight alit by the moonlight illuminance. He lifts his head to sight-see the elegance of the cherry blossoms with warm accents of Japanese maple behind them. A pale path winds around small groupings of light coloured azalea, around the small trunks of plum blossoms like a white serpent. A stone lantern sits among a cluster of ferns like an ancient sentinel observing them as they walked through with quiet footsteps. 

His eyes glide from the thin bamboo to the flowing carpet of ruby red camellias touching the pale sand with its natural adornment of petals. He likens them to a set of jewels, one forged perfectly by immaculate hands of nature.

He touches them gently, feels the red petals brush against the centre of his palm. Then let's go, expecting to see faint lines of blood dripping down his fingers. 

They’re a perfect set of flowers cursed by his own darkened memories, paints everything black and white. 

The night is everything quiet, as it should be. Their steps scarcely make any sound and Akashi feels as if he's holding his breath when he knows he isn't, afraid that a small whiff of air would disturb the resting tranquillity. The edge of his cloak ghosts over the pavements, each step muffled by the therapeutic trickle of water in the nearby ponds and the faint rustle of wind. 

He could pass his time here, submerged in its ambience. He imagines him counting the petals of each plum blossom or identifying the sweet and alluring aromas of flowers. 

Akashi continues to gaze across the garden as they pass over a wooden bridge arching gracefully over a pond. The faint sound of a _shishi-odoshi_ is woven intricately into the cicadas singing; the clarity of a miniature waterfall splashing into the pond compliments its steady notes. It's a harmony perfected by nature, Akashi thinks and he realises how much he has missed this. He's never been to a garden much like this ever since her passing. 

Afraid he would see blood in the water, swirling to the surface like a dark ribbon, of white petals dotted with blood.

Ferns brush featherlight touches against his bare ankles as they stop at a curved path of stepping stones surrounded by water. Akashi counts ten of them leading to a gazebo. There’s an evident light inside and its warmth glows past the navy blue darkness. 

Nijimura steps onto the stones and offers Akashi a hand. He accepts it graciously and without a word.

It doesn't take long until they've reached the last stepping stone. From here he could see the pointed tips of rose-red tulips tenderly nestled around the base as a youthful wisteria hung purple blossoms across the roof. 

Lilacs are the most abundant in its presence; their petals glow white against the ghostly moonshine, ethereal. The gazebo shines in the illuminance as well, refined edges highlighted by moonlight. 

His hand presses against the side of his head as he remembers of too many things; memories he's tried hard to forget, to burn into black oblivion until there’s nothing left but pitiful ashes; anything to help ease the pain-

Nijimura was there to help; his warm hand against the one on his temple pries it away slowly until he has his hand intertwined through his fingers. Locks him in place, secures him to his surroundings, grounds him like his anchor to reality. Akashi is grateful for it, otherwise his mind would drift listlessly among memories of a grey sea.

His eyes focus on the faint flickering of candles, mesmerised for a moment by the rich red and the undertone of blue burning away at the wick. Beside the neat cluster of varied sized candles and incense sticks with a bed of flower bouquets underneath, a wooden-framed painting sits nestled in the centre, poised and dignant. The gentle flames highlight the figure’s soft features with soft feathery shadows, accents the delicate red of unforgettable eyes. 

His heart stills for a long second when he recognises the person in the painting. 

"Mother," He whispers faintly, his breath thin and somehow lost to his own ears as he uncovers the hood from his head. 

Old memories begin to tear at wounds he's long tried to forget despite his belief that everything would mend over time. Perhaps that naive part of himself from his early years had grown to be embedded in him, feeding him false hopes that growing past his childhood through the years may help him recover from the old scars in his heart, that perhaps the seams could be woven together, the torn pieces connected over time without fear of a mark. 

The light of the candles transforms the inanimate nature of the painting; her eyes shine, the smile on her lips is the same as he remembers. All over again, he becomes the Seijuro ten years ago, small and uncertain in front of his mother. Mother, who is now imprinted as an afterimage onto a canvas.

 _His thoughtful eyes lie still into the persistent flame of a candle, watches the subtle smoke curl into the air as he hears the daunting footsteps of his father entering his room_.

 _Seijuro doesn't look him in the eye, his stare now fixated on the lilac hanging loosely from its vase, drooping and muted. He can feel his father’s hard stare on his back, weighs him down with a suffocating cold. The silence is just as oppressive and it smoulders the flame away from the wick of the candle, thin wisps of smoke whisked by the wind from an open window. A selfish part of him wishes he can follow after_.

 _A petal falls and his eyes follow its slow, taunting descent to the wooden table. On the polished reflection near the shadow of the fallen petal, the hard face of his father is darkened by the inky shadows across his stern features, daunting and solid. The faint glint of light from a lamp reflects his father's dark crimson eyes and they look too much like hardened blood_. 

_“It is best for you to forget her.”_

His body moves on its own accord and unknowingly, he reaches for the painting with an outstretched hand. A hard instinct rips him away before his fingers make contact. He is unsure of what to feel when he's spent years trying to forget this imagery of her. 

_“You will not help her move on if you cling onto the past like an insolent child. Move on and give her peace, that is expected of you.”_

"Why?" He whispers into the empty space of silence, unsure of what he is even questioning when his eyes clench shut.

 _His chest hurts; his eyes prick with intrusive tears when the dragon brooch in his drawer is missing, taken away by his father as he leaves the room. He feels pathetic for being upset over a trinket, but it doesn’t compare to the wretched pain of something being torn away from him_. 

_Like the drawer, he feels just as empty without it_. 

Nijimura’s arm moves to soothe him; his simple touch helps release some of the rising turmoil in his chest. 

He stares past the painting and into the night sky, counting the stars. Count away the seconds slipping through his fingers as his composure trembles. No matter how hard he tries to grasp them, they always fall away through the gaps of his fingers like the dark drip of crimson blood.

"No-one ever told you from what I've heard from the palace but this village built her a garden as a memorial since she was deeply admired here," Nijimura slings a supportive arm around his shoulder and Akashi listens intently as he leans into his side, clinging onto the sound of his voice instead of the ache in his heart. "It was apparently an order from your father not to show you this memorial, the place your mother wanted to be buried if she ever passed." 

His throat is tight but he forces past the lump in it. His voice is unmistakingly quiet and even more so against the breeze rustling the flames of the candle. He feels like he's flickering too, about to disappear, "I only ever attended the funeral. That was all there was.”

Nijimura looks at him then turns his head away to stare at the candles; flecks of fire glow in his eyes,“But it wasn’t all that; people were scared of hurting you even more if they were to mention it, scared that old trauma would resurface but,” Nijimura pauses, contemplates his choice of words cautiously and then scowls deeply after, much to Akashi’s surprise, "That just made things worse for you. How could they do that? I mean, it’s something you would want to see, in my opinion anyway.”

It's not.

A voice whispers like the faint wisp of wind. 

_It is_.

His voice is a mere phantom, ghosting on upset or perhaps he's angry; He can't tell, "Why are you showing me?" 

"I mean it’s bullshit to hide this from you, of all things. Everyone told me I shouldn't mention it but it’s something you can’t know about," Nijimura says and his eyes are unmoving, trained on him. "You don't realise it yourself, Akashi. But every day you have this distant look on you whenever she’s mentioned, you always avoid anything related to her and I can tell it seriously bothers you. Even more so today.”

"What are you trying to say?" His tone is sharp now, a natural instinct to oppose him when he starts to feel cornered, questioned. 

But Nijimura doesn't provoke him any further, he never does. 

“It’s not complicated. You’re upset and you’re burdened by the pain you hold onto because you’ve suppressed it ever since then.”

Akashi flinches as the truth he’s denied himself for years is spoken directly towards him. Nijimura pauses and then moves to take him into his arms, gives Akashi time to move back if he needed to. He doesn’t move away from his embrace, accepting of his touch as he leans his head against his chest. 

"I have no idea what happened when she passed but you need to let yourself heal from it. It’s affecting you; I saw it back then and I see it now. It’s why I wanted to show you this.”

The flames of candles distort around the wind as silence weighs heavy on him. He has healed enough to sustain himself and there's nothing left but to paint over the faint marks left behind by those years. Nothing more, nothing less. 

"There is nothing to be healed. As you say, it’s in the past and I have moved on from the naive child I was.”

“No you haven’t. You’re denying it; it’s only going to deepen the wounds the longer you leave it as it is.” 

“How can you tell?”

“I can just see it.”

Akashi suddenly feels vulnerable at Nijimura’s firm response. He hates the feeling of uncertainty, of something he had no control over. 

“You need to let go of that pain, Sei,” He squeezes him reassuringly, his hand holding the back of his head, his voice is just as soft. 

His shoulders tremble when he feels a turmoil of emotions start to tear open at patched wounds, “I don’t need to let go of anything.”

“You can let go now,” His arms feel pleasant around him as he tightens his embrace, “Even if it’s a little at a time, right?” 

Akashi's breath shudders as his chest hurts with an unbearable ache. His voice is on the verge of breaking until it does happen. What was previously a trickle becomes a torrent, crashing walls down he's built in a single whisper, "I miss her." 

Nijimura tightens his hold on him and Akashi presses his face against his chest. He's safe here, tucked away into his body with nothing left to hide. 

In Nijimura's embrace, he lets go for the Seijuro eight years ago, releases everything when he couldn't do so back when he was on the verge of tearing apart. His hot tears dampen the fabric of his uniform but Nijimura doesn't mind, he never does in times when he allows himself to fall apart, to become stripped and raw to his emotions. 

He pulls him further in against his chest, stroking his hair like how she would whenever he was upset with father. A hand on his back gently soothes him, eases the aching hurt in his flesh and bones, smoothes the frayed edges of his tattered heart. The touch brings him back to hazy memories of her smile, the way her eyes crinkled with a pure joy whenever he showed her results that she would praise him for, showering him with an affection he's never known in the palace. Hearing Nijimura’s heartbeat in his chest, he wishes that she was also breathing and alive, her skin warm instead of cold, the blood underneath her skin bright and healthy instead of black and tainted with an incurable illness.

Wrapped in warmth, he loses himself to the bordering white in his mind and willingly allows for reality to slip past his fingers. In the expanse of white, faint colours blossom into the white canvas of his mind with a soft stroke of watercolours: Mellow green, the length of a clear sky, a scattering of white petals in a pleasant breeze. Amongst the flow of time, he thought he heard a fond voice carried over the wind, calling his name in a distant haze. 

The faint trickle of water streaming between the gaps of rocks carefully brings him around like a gentle tide. He’s still enveloped in Nijimura’s arms, his head resting against his chest as the familiar touch of Nijimura’s hand strokes his hair back. He relishes the feel of his fingers carding over his scalp as he steadies his trembling breath in time with the faint knock of the _shishi-odoshi_.

Having his body pressed against Nijimura feels safe, comforting. It melts everything away, eases the disturbance in his heart; his embraces were always a stroke of colour against his grey scaled world. 

He pulls back after a long pause of contentful silence, fights the urge to hold onto him longer. 

"Thank you," Akashi says quietly before he lowers his gaze down to the ground beneath, watches the grass rustling against the wind listlessly, lost as he is, "I'm sorry for that."

The weight of Nijimura’s hand returns, ruffles his hair. He looks up and his heart warms at the sight of his soft smile and the brotherly fondness in his eyes, "What did I say about apologising for everything?" 

Another apology creeps up his throat but he bites it back with an embarrassed smile, the heat lancing up to his cheeks.

"If you have time to look back, look forward, yeah?"

"Yes."

His stare lingers on the painting, on the face of his mother. She looks alive, and well. If he imagined harder, he could see her smile back at him. There's evidently still an ache in his chest, but Nijimura's hand finds his and interlocks their fingers together. The pain is still there but it fades, just a little. 

It can't have been much, but it's enough for him. 

His presence is as reassuring as he remembers and it’s good enough, doesn’t ask for anything more. 

He stays there until the cicadas eventually fall silent in the dark, until the chorus of wind against the garden settles into a resting melody, lays everything gently to rest like the settling of his heartbeat. The cool breeze whisks away the last dying flames of the candles with a final breath. 

The last thing he does in front of his mother is bow deeply, silent messages that he does not have to convey with spoken words. Nijimura follows suit in a respectful silence and that's all that matters. 

 

 

It's unbearably dark when they walk back and Akashi may have had trouble placing one foot in front of another if not for the barest glow of the moon or the subtle feathery shadows of leaves and dappled moonlight revealing the course gravel path back. Nijimura hasn't said a word since then and for that, Akashi appreciates it. His head has had some time now to piece himself back together since their departure from the memorial. 

He feels a ribbon of guilt and shame unfurl within him when a thought passes his mind. He has his head turned to the ground despite having been conditioned to hold his gaze high, "This is the first time I have visited my mother in years and yet I had brought nothing with me as an offering."

It surprises him how fast Nijimura responds, "You brought yourself, didn't you? That's more than enough." 

"Do you think so?" There's a slither of concern interwoven with a yearning hope. Feelings of doubt budge its way into his heart, make him think otherwise, poison his hopeful thoughts with blackened dread.

Nijimura drops his furrowed stare down onto him, upper lip jutting out as if Akashi just asked him something stupid, "Of course. She would be happy, honestly. Stop second-guessing yourself so much you know.” 

With that, he lets all doubts fade and releases it along with the heartache he's been carrying with a quiet exhale. There are remnants of pieces deep and embedded somewhere, shards of regret he's managed to live with. There’s no doubt it still hurts despite the balm of Nijimura’s words. 

Oddly enough he feels better with the pain fresh and vivid, unearthed after years of having not touched it. 

He’s healing one stitch at a time and the hand closed gently around his is a start. 

He leans his head against Nijimura's shoulder, exhausted and emotionally-spent.

"Perhaps you're right."

There’s the usual sarcasm Nijimura is well known for, his lips jutting out in that all too familiar pout, “Yeah, course I’m right, brat.” 

Between the moment of silence and the walk back to the festival grounds, Akashi smiles. 

 

 

Lanterns float adrift on the river and Akashi gazes with a new fascination as their flames inside flickered with reverence. Their vibrant orange hues melt into the dark waters, ribbons of light rippling against the surface. His breath comes easily to him when he’s away from the main crowd as he relishes the soft feeling of grass threaded between his fingers. 

Nijimura returns with the materials. He sets it aside Akashi on the grass and begins assembling the lantern.

“Wanna write anything on the paper like everyone is doing?” 

Akashi thinks for a moment but shakes his head in the end. He doesn’t need any words written for his feelings to reach her. 

Nijimura hands Akashi the lantern once he’s done wrapping the thin paper around the four posts. It’s light but the weight is heavy with the implications of releasing the bittersweet past, a new page in his life to relieve himself of the black mess of trauma breeding in his memories. 

The fire within the lantern burns through the chill of the night, warming his cheeks when he continues to gaze at it. He imagines he’s holding the very spiritual essence of his mother’s soul and it’s waiting, seeking the release he’s gradually coming into terms with. 

He kneels on the descending dip of the river’s bank, inhales deeply. Nijimura’s hand on his arm eases the tension in his shoulders. 

Releases a steady breath. 

He sets the lantern down onto the water with mindful hands and it ripples the glistening surface with orange and silver light. It’s given a light push before it’s set adrift across the waters, an inviting breeze carrying it along its way further towards the middle stream. His stare lingers, unmoving until it reaches the rest; a blank lantern among many others. It merges into the groupings of lights until it bobs down a different current, disappears from his line of sight. 

For a long time, he watches the fireflies hovering over the grass. 

A courageous one lands on Akashi’s fingertip, rests there for a moment. Its golden light blinks at him before it flies away on a gentle breeze. 

“Will you leave me?” Akashi whispers as he tucks his knees close to his chest; his head rests against Nijimura’s shoulder as fluorescent specks of fireflies pass by. 

“I’ll always be here with you.” 

Akashi hides a smile at the light blush on Nijimura’s cheeks. The older of the two was always prone to sappy lines. 

“Okay.”

“Oi, why do you sound so doubtful?” Nijimura’s voice has taken on a rough edge and he looks angry; the pink on his cheeks and the way he fixes his eyes away into the distance says otherwise, “I won’t leave you. Well, unless you order me to anyway.”

“Prove it?” He eyes Nijimura with a look that’s sure to reduce him into a stuttering mess.

Instead, his own breath stutters when Nijimura tilts his head with a hand, angles his chin up so he can press his lips against his. They’re warm and loving; their breaths mingle when he pulls away smoothly.

“There, see I love you and I’m not gonna leave you anytime soon. Now stop it,” A hand pinches at his cheek. 

He pushes his hand away, rubbing at the sore spot. He’s smiling genuinely, heart alight with a warmth like the lanterns adrift in the waters, “I love you too.”

For a long moment, he rests his head on his shoulder, taking in the faint smell of water and the ambience of nature surrounding them. He does not realise he's nodding off until Nijimura presses a cool item into the centre of his palm, his fingers flexing around the object instinctively. An inaudible gasp escapes him when he looks down to what Nijimura had given him. 

An iridescent shine reflects tiny fragments of lights onto his hands off of a crane brooch, like stars of a constellation thriving on his palm. For long seconds, he admires the scattered diamonds of moonlight reflecting off the brooch, his wonder just as clear and pristine. His gaze stays transfixed onto each refined feather, counting each minuscule detail with wide eyes. His eyes drift upwards, rendered speechless when Nijimura gives him a grin. 

"It's for you," He says and ruffles his hair with a rough hand when Akashi continues to stare at him with uncertain eyes.

His heart flutters in his chest, "I don't know what to say." He cradles the brooch in his hands, brushes a thumb over the surface. His voice comes out in a whisper, "It's beautiful." 

Nijimura’s arm comes around to press him into his side and Akashi lets him, leans into the embrace. The brooch reminds him of one that was given to him those many years ago and his chest aches. Past the pain though, he smiles and wipes away a stray tear gliding down his cheek. What was taken away eight years ago has been given back to him now, tenfold. 

"Happy birthday, Sei." 

Akashi returns his smile with one of his own.

 

 

Akashi hasn't even placed a foot inside the palace before he sees a dark blur heading his way. He's suddenly engulfed and wrapped up in tight arms and Akashi struggles to breathe when his mouth is pressed against a body. 

"Mibuchi, I am having trouble breathing," He wheezes.

"Oh Seichan!" Mibuchi loosens his grip but doesn't make a move to let go, his voice is quivering and Akashi knows he's upset, "I was worried sick to where you were! The minute I checked into the room, you were gone. Don't make me worried like that. I even had Ei-chan break down the door!”

Akashi blinks, innocently, “Nijimura-san wanted to take me out for my birthday. I enjoyed it.”

Nijimura speaks up with a raise of his hand, "Don't worry, I took care of everything." 

Mibuchi instantly turns an evil-eye his way and presses Akashi back into his arms, one crossed over his chest. His finger points accusingly in Nijimura’s direction, "How did you think it was a good idea to bring Sei-chan out at this time? He could've been kidnapped and held for ransom, how awful would that be? Oh, I don't even want to imagine such a horrible thing!" 

Akashi lowers Mibuchi's arms with a gentle push of his fingers, and his grip relents a little, "It's all right, Mibuchi. As you can see, I am unharmed.” 

Mibuchi quickly flicks his gaze over his body before hovering over him, checking his face with feather-light fingers and an inspectful stare. They reach his eyes and Mibuchi inhales deeply. The look of death on him makes even his nerves curdle and Akashi has been accustomed to know it did not mean anything good. 

He speaks slowly to Nijimura and there's nothing reassuring in it, "Did you make Sei-chan cry?"

Nijimura jerks to the dripping venom in his words and the flustered look he has on him amuses Akashi despite how bad of a position he's in. 

Nijimura's hands shoot up in surrender as Mibuchi creeps closer, a soft smile disguised with dark intent. He stumbles with his words, "Wait, no - I mean, I can explain- "

Akashi opens his mouth to pardon Nijimura from any hounding Mibuchi is most likely going to induce. But any chance is lost when Mibuchi lunges like a well-poised cat. He’s effortlessly caught by Nebuya (thankfully, and much to Nijimura’s relief) with his thick arms holding securely around his waist. Meanwhile, Hayama is behind Mibuchi with failed attempts of trying to calm the other down as he flailed his arms in Nijimura's direction. Mayuzumi from the far back only sighs, shakes his head with disbelief before he returns his attention to the script held poised in his hands. 

He indulges himself for a moment with the amusing scene at hand; his lips shift upwards in a small smile. 

Nijimura catches his gaze and sends him a pleading look, his eyes flicking to Mibuchi then back to him with a rare look of desperation. 

Before he steps forward to settle the situation, his eyes turn one more time to the painting on the hall, one that he hasn't spared a glance since her passing. It's the same as ever, with his mother's smile never quite the same in something fabricated.

A familiar numbing cold seeps between the crevices of his mind, encroaching on fond memories to taint them with icy fingers.

(" _If you have time to look back, look forward, yeah?_ ")

This time he does not turn away.

**Author's Note:**

> The reason why Akashi is sensitive as he is about his mother is that I feel like he never properly got to grieve for his mother’s death or come to terms with it in a healthy way. He was a young kid back then and the death must've been traumatic. Nijimura is a stepping stone to help Akashi properly come to terms with his loss and that was what I was trying to depict in this fanfic.
> 
> And hey hey, don't be afraid to leave a comment! And if you do see any errors, let me know.
> 
> (Also this was supposed to be a 2k short fluffy njak story. Haha no, now it is over 10k, some angst, and is more metaphorical and flashbacky then I intended)


End file.
